


Hurry, Hurry (The Man You Love Is Dead)

by grump_ass



Category: True Detective
Genre: F slur, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Q slur, also trigger warnings for time skips and HURT FEELINGS, and death because come on it’s true detective, it’s the 80s/90s folks and nobody is safe from homophobia or homophobic slurs, listen roland west topped the fuck outta tom purcell and i’ll die on that hill, uuuuh fffffucking trigger warnings for alcoholism and violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-10-29 06:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grump_ass/pseuds/grump_ass
Summary: It’s something of a shock that he is capable of caring about someone so much that, the moment they’re gone, Roland shuts down completely.(Roland and Tom, from the beginning, to the middle, and after the end.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: I’m starting this after watching episode six, so it’s probably going to get absolutely DESTROYED by episode seven, theory wise.
> 
> Also this first chapter is WAY SHORTER THAN MY FIRST CHAPTERS USUALLY ARE but i wanted to start putting this out. plus i like jumping around the time line so i figured Different Chapters might help.

Tom rolled his hand out at it’s wrist, flicking it up when Roland just stared.

 

“Pray with me?” Tom grumbled, beckoning again.

 

Roland hadn’t been to church since he was thirteen and his mama had gotten a wild hair up her ass about going. Something about them and needing Jesus in their lives. They took up the fifth pew from the front for a solid three months before she started skipping to play bingo. 

 

He set the shatterproof plastic cup of iced tea down on the coffee table, wiping the condensation from the cup onto his pant leg before taking Tom’s hand. The room was silent as Tom bowed his head and began murmuring. Despite his best attempts, Roland couldn’t help but note the way his dark curls went honeyed and brown against the warm yellow sunlight filtering through the living room window. His brow was knit tight, his face scrunched up as he prayed, voice ringing out like a shot in the humid and stagnant air. 

 

Tom squeezed Roland’s hand tighter. His stomach twisted in response. A calloused thumb swiped over Roland’s knuckles in such a way that Roland imagined throwing himself against the wall until he was bloody and unconscious. Which probably wasn’t one of the healthier attitudes he could have had about loving another man, but what could be done about that?

 

His biggest question, if he had one (and he usually did), was really just how many times he was going to sit on this couch. Whether or not he could pretend that it was enough just to hold Tom’s hand in his. If he could keep forcing himself to breathe in spite of the oppressive bleakness under the recitations of those same verses he heard every time he ended up in this spot.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s something about his eyes, Roland thought to himself.

 

Tom had those droopy hound dog eyes that rolled more than flickered. Every look he threw you was a long one, like any quick movement he could make would ultimately be dipping into what little energy he had left. If Roland were a poet, he would’ve called them sparkless or despondent or some shit like that.

 

Roland watched as Tom stared out the windshield and settled on tired instead.

 

“So I suppose you’re coming with me tonight,” Roland said lowly, eyes pinned on the empty stretch of tar out ahead of them.

 

Tom said nothing, but his head twitched in a way that may have been a halfhearted nod. Roland took the knob on the radio and turned it over until there was music between them.

 

Tom was down a shirt, his flannel a bloody mess lying in a heap on the backseat floor. He had a grease rag clamped over his nose as it dripped red. His grey shirt was also a mess, but not so disgustingly so that Roland hadn’t been able to make peace with letting Tom wear it into his car.

 

“I’ll find you a clean shirt to wear,” Roland said, “we’ll wash the one in the back and let it dry tonight.”

 

Tom huffed out a sigh and slumped down in the seat.

 

“I wasn’t like this,” he said, “before the kids. I wasn’t this…. sniffling, fucking-”

 

“You have every right to be upset right now,” Roland said, “plenty of folks’d be doing the same shit you’re doing if it were them.”

 

Roland glanced at Tom, just enough to show that he was waiting for him continue, before looking back at the road.

 

“Used to be I was a real,” Tom mumbled, curling his body towards the door, “a real live wire, you know. Spent my time soupin’ up old cars and getting into fights and running around town and shit. Suppose Lucy changed all that.”

 

“She calmed you down?”

 

“More like her getting knocked up calmed me down.”

 

Tom dug the balls of his palms into his eyes and let out a choked off laugh.

 

“I was a little too wild.”

 

His hands fell down to his lap at that, curling loosely against his knees.

 

“Used to get blackout drunk. I’d wake up naked as a fucking newborn with Lucy next to me. Never really found a rubber lying around, either. Only makes sense that at some point our luck’d run out.”

 

As Roland turned onto his street, Tom went quiet. When Roland rolled to a stop in front of his house and looked over, Tom’s eyes were wide open and wavering, tear shined and beer red. He brought the grease rag away from his nose, leaving a smear of blood and black down his upper lip. 

 

“Wasn’t ever scared of much till those damn kids,” Tom said, “when they put Will in my arms, I felt like I was- not getting handed another mouth to feed. Not like I was getting saddled with something. It felt like I had something in me.”

 

Tom looked back out the window and pulled the rag back over his nose.

 

“Like I finally had something I had to protect,” Tom whimpered, shoulders shaking, “like I’d been living my life just to hold that little baby.”

 

The ignition died down as Tom rasped wetly into the rag over his face. Roland let him drag his mud caked boots onto the seat as he folded in on himself.

 

“Those fuckin’ kids, man,” Tom sobbed, “I wish I’d never had ‘em. If I knew I was gonna fuckin’-“

 

“Let’s get you inside,” Roland said quietly.

 

“I’d rather not have had ‘em if I was just gonna fucking lose ‘em.”

 

Roland pulled his keys out and shoved them into his pocket. Tom stayed balled up, letting Roland get out of the car and come around to his side. With minimal maneuvering, Roland managed to unbuckle Tom and pull him out of the car. An arm around Roland’s shoulders and a well placed kick against the door sent them stumbling up the steps to Roland’s front door.

 

“Shoulda been paying attention,” Tom moaned at the pavement, “shouldn’t have drunk that night. Shoulda gone looking for them sooner.”

 

“Don’t you worry about that,” Roland whispered.

 

“Should have told them they couldn’t go,” Tom continued, planting a foot on the porch and trying to heave himself up it, “should have said that it was too late for a bike ride or some shit. Shouldn’t have let them leave in the first place.”

 

Roland unlocked the door just in time for Tom to slump forward, narrowly avoiding smashing his face against the wood floor when Roland managed to pull him back onto his feet.

 

“We’ll get you a shower,” Roland said, leading him to the bathroom, “get you some clean clothes and a spot on the couch. Sleep this off.”

 

“I just wanna forget them,” Tom said, shambling alongside him, arm knocking into the door frame, “wish I could forget ‘em.”

 

“I know you do,” Roland said, “I know you do.”

 

It was quiet as the two men considered the sentiment. There was something of a silent agreement between them, probably. Tom would never forget those kids. There would be no real moving on from here, and any attempt to heal would just be like sticking a bandaid over something that needed stitches. Even if they found Julie, even if they found whoever killed Will, whether Tom wanted to or not, there would be no recovering from this.

 

Tom had said it himself: Will had already taken up a spot in him, and nothing was going to fill that.

 

Roland lowered Tom onto the bathroom floor and started the shower up. Tom peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto the tile besides him before fumbling with the clasp on his jeans.

 

“You can use whatever you need,” Roland said, focusing on the towel rack, “clean towel’s here.”  

 

He took Tom’s shirt in his hands before clapping him on the shoulder, hand sticking to sweat slick skin and staying. A freckle hung just over Roland’s thumb like a navigating star, dark and surrounded by a spatter of fainter freckles. He absentmindedly ran his thumb over the point of Tom’s shoulder blade, and was filled with the sensation of being on the cusp of something familiar.    

 

“Just clean yourself up and see if you feel better,” Roland said, “I’ll throw some clean clothes on the counter for when you’re done.”

 

Tom jerked his chin down in a facsimile of a nod, still working his jeans down his hips. Roland realized his hand was still on his back. A lump curled into the pit of his throat as he pulled his hand away.

 

“I’ll see you when you get out,” Roland said finally, not sure what to say, but eager to put a door between him and Tom. He walked out of the bathroom with the shirt still crumpled in his hand, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

 

In his dreams that night, he was back on the front porch of his parents old house. It was all the same, if a little more lopsided and dilapidated than he remembered it being. And when Roland looked over, Jack was there, sun browned and bruised, curled awkwardly into the porch swing next to him.

 

“Can I stay the night?” Jack asked, and Roland realized that he had no discernible face.

 

The only thing Roland could tell was that it was him. Even through that crush of haze and smoke that filled all memories of him. And when he looked down at his hands, he knew he was younger. Somehow he just knew.

 

And in the yard, there was Tom, hunched over and shaking in the grass, freckled back burning under white hot sun.

 

In the dome of that Arkansas summer sky, a shaking voice called out, “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

 

* * *

  

When Roland shuffled out of his room the next morning, the couch was empty. The clean shirt he’d lent Tom lay in a pile on the floor. Next to it was the pair of shorts he’d managed to wrestle onto Tom after he passed out.

 

Roland took the sheets and the clothes in his arms, and cleared away any sign that Tom had been there the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m back from the dead !
> 
> i’m on tumblr at levijamesn (main blog) and gayrolandwest (td blog) 
> 
> i’m also on twitter at levi_76_99


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Quick: the f slur is in here. It’s like being used by a gay man in a not shitty way, but it’s there. Also, this chapter mentions pedophilia. Just keep your little selves safe.

There was an alley cat in Roland’s neighborhood that he’d taken to feeding about three months before the Purcell kids went missing. He didn’t know it well enough to put a name on it, asides from calling it “asshole” when it hissed at him or “the cat” in conversations with himself in the pet food aisle. But even with all of its initial hissing and scratching, Roland found that he liked having the little fucker around. 

 

Every morning, like clockwork, the cat sat down at his back door, pawing at the glass and meowing as soon as it saw Roland stumble into the living room. It would keep up its yowling until Roland rolled back the sliding door, a cup of coffee in his right hand and a bowl of Meow Mix or can of tuna in the crook of his elbow. Roland would sit his ass down on that ice cold concrete porch, a cigarette between his lips and a hand combing through the cat’s orange fur as it ate whatever Roland had put down in front of it. And while Roland may have walked away from their first few encounters with a litany of deep red scratch marks up his hand, there seemed to be no distrust or fear between them now. Not as soft purrs curled up under his fingers. 

 

“Sun’s rising earlier and earlier, it seems,” Roland would murmur into the curve of some chipped big box store mug. 

 

He only ever got the sound of crunching in the response. But it was under those orange hued mornings that Roland felt like he was a little bit closer to understanding that cat, and whether or not it seemed to understand him back. 

 

Of course, then the sun would rise, and the cat’s bowl would run empty. And, as if it were awakening from some kibble flavored spell, the cat would jolt out from under Roland’s hand and slide down the patio steps and out the gap in the fence as easily as it had come in. 

 

Roland was starting to realize that Tom was a lot like that cat. In desperate need of something, then jittery and feral as soon as it had gotten what it needed. They both had that air of shame to their disappearing acts, as if accepting a scrap of food or a warm place to sleep off a sixer of beer was a declaration of weakness. The only difference being that the cat willingly came to Roland, whereas Tom acted like they were being thrust at each other by some cosmic force far beyond his control. To Tom’s credit, he wasn’t the one calling Roland when he got too drunk to stand.  

 

* * *

  
  


Wayne had them elbow deep in case files on every convicted sex offender within a twenty mile radius, epicenter being the Purcell’s neighborhood. The coroner may very well have insisted that she’d never found any signs of trauma on Will (asides from a gash the width of an axe handle split across the back of his head), but her claims had fallen on both parts deaf and stubborn ears. And while Roland hated the idea of anything like that happening to a kid, he couldn’t help but share at least some of Wayne’s paranoia. 

 

That put him in Rich’s office at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Rich was flipping through a notebook he’d pulled out of his shirt pocket, tapping his finger down the list and reading off any names that seemed relevant. 

 

“Robert Blixer,” Rich said halfway down, “older fella, came in looking for teen shit. How old was the Purcell girl?”

 

“She’s about ten or so.” 

 

“Mm,” Rich hummed for a minute, only to shake his head, “naw, he asked for fourteen at the youngest. She’d probably be too young for him in that case.”

 

Roland wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

 

“What about blonde girls? Anyone come in asking for blonde children specifically?”

 

“Nope,” Rich sighed, snapping the notebook shut before holding it out to Roland, “you can give that a look if you want, but I don’t think your guy came through here.” 

 

Roland took the notebook and opened it back up. He felt his lip curl involuntarily. 

 

“How long would you say it takes to fill up a notebook this size?” He asked. 

 

“A while. Unfortunately, most perverts aren’t as upfront with their desires as we’d like for them to be. World would be a better place if they were.” 

 

“Be easier to get ass, at any rate.” 

 

“I hear that, brother,” Rich laughed, leaning back in his desk chair, “imagine a world where everyone let their freak flags fly. Less lonely faggots sitting at home, more child rapists in prison.” 

 

“Sounds damn near picturesque,” Roland huffed through a frown. He brought his finger up to a name and leaned over so that Rich could see where he was pointing, “what about this guy? Asked if y’all had any angel themed shit?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Rich murmured, leaning over, “yeah, I didn’t report him. Asking if it exists ain’t a crime. But if the Purcell girl was blonde and all fine drawn like you said- yeah. You may want to look into him. I’ll let you know if I see anything else. Good catch.” 

 

Roland pulled out his own notebook and pen to scratch the name down. When he was done, Rich closed his notebook and shoved it back into his shirt pocket.

 

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

But before Roland could make an exit, Rich stood up from his chair.

 

“You want to go out Saturday? Met someone. Said you might like his friend.”

 

“My congrats. But that’ll be a ‘ _ no, thank you _ ’ from me.”

 

Rich scratched his chin and sighed, but offered a halfhearted nod. Roland pulled the office door open and cut through the shop, his peripherals a blur of blood red lipstick and perky tits. A truck driver type was crammed into a corner of the twenty by twenty as Roland made his way to the front door, a copy of Blueboy crumpled between his white knuckled grip. He peered at Roland over the glossy white pages, and arched his eyebrow. Roland shook his head and waved back at him, and the man looked back at his magazine, brow slouching out and down as he reached the centerfold. As Roland stepped out into the truck stop parking lot, he thought he heard Rich say something to the effect of, “ _ Hey, this ain’t a fucking library. You read it, you buy it _ .”

* * *

 

Roland’s first hint that something was off should have been the fact that the man who called him about Tom didn’t sound so much put out as concerned. 

 

What made Roland notice anything different about Little Rock Bar was the fact that they were playing Dolly Parton when he walked in. 

 

The bartender noticed him right away, motioning for Roland to follow him before he could even flash his badge and ask for Tom. Roland threw a look over his shoulder at the sea of men behind him one more time, before pushing through the beaded curtain leading to the backroom. 

 

They had Tom sitting up in a chair with a bag of ice pressed to his cheek. One guy had a hand on Tom’s shoulder and his head down by his ear, whispering something as he rubbed a soothing circle around his back. When Roland entered, the man looked up, nose twitching for a split second. 

 

“Detective West?” He asked. 

 

Tom flinched under the man’s ministrations, and he jerked his body into the back of the chair. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Thank you for coming by.”

 

“Everything alright here?”

 

Roland looked over at Tom. He hung his head, the side of his face still covered by the ziploc bag of half melted ice. 

 

“Mr. Purcell? You alright?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Barry Willson,” the man said, holding his hand out until Roland took it, “I’m the owner. Sorry to call your work number, I’m sure you were set to head home.” 

 

“”S alright.”

 

“Knew Tom was probably acquainted with you. Didn’t know who else to call.” 

 

“His wife would’ve-” Roland shook his head as soon as he started to say it, “Naw, I suppose not.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what we thought,” Barry scoffed softly, “don’t need her coming in here, kicking ‘im while he’s already down.”

 

“‘M right fucking here, asshole.”

 

“Count yourself lucky that I’m sending you home with Detective West, Tom,” Barry stated, “and that I’m not banning you on the spot.”

 

Barry pulled a dishtowel out of his pocket and brought it over Tom’s nose. 

 

“Starting shit like that,” Barry huffs, “nice guy tries to buy you a drink, and you go straight for the face.” 

 

“Asked me ‘bout-”

 

“You’re fine. I know what you’re going through.” Barry looked back at Roland. “You gon’ be able to get ‘im home okay?”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Roland made his way over to Tom and put his hand out. Barry took the rag off of Tom’s nose so that he could take Roland’s hand and let himself be hoisted up onto his feet. After a precarious second where Tom seemed like he was about to tip over, he restablized and firmly planted his feet on the linoleum flooring. Without looking up, he turned his head towards Barry. 

 

“Sorry, man,” he mumbled. 

 

“It’s alright, Tom. I’ll see you next week, alright? Hell,” and Barry clapped him on the shoulder so hard that Tom started to teeter again, “you go a week sober, I’ll make sure you get a free drink. Top shelf, even.” 

 

Before Roland could argue that offering an alcoholic booze as a reward was probably not the best course of action, Tom nodded once and leaned his weight into Roland’s side. When Roland moved to hold him up, Tom tucked his head under his jaw and sighed soft and warm into his neck. Barry’s eyes flickered over them as his mouth tilted into a small smile. 

 

“Take care of yourself, Tom,” Barry said, handing Roland the blood soaked rag before brushing past them and back into the bar. 

 

Roland wrapped an arm around Tom’s shoulders.

 

“I guess I’m taking you home, huh,” he whispered. 

 

“Yours.” 

 

“That’s what I-” Roland frowned, “yeah, man. My place.” 

 

Tom pulled his head back with a soaked sniff. Wet dripped down Roland’s neck, and he made sure to run the driest corner of the cloth over it before bringing it back to Tom’s nose. 

 

“Take hold of it, will you?” Roland said, “need to settle your tab before we head out?”

 

“Yeah. Fifteen bucks, I think. Wallet’s in my pocket.” 

 

“Jesus, Tom,” Roland sighed as he reached into Tom’s left pocket.

 

“Fuck off. He asked about the kids, you know?”

 

For a second, Roland was too busy trying to wiggle Tom’s wallet out from his pocket to really register what was being said. When it hit him, however, he just sighed.

 

“Yeah. I figured.”

 

“Shouldn’t ‘ave punched ‘im. He was just tryin’ t’be nice. Nicest anyone’s been to me in a long while.” 

 

“What exactly do you think I get out of picking your drunk ass up every three days?” Roland joked. 

 

Tom dropped his head back down onto his shoulder in response. They stood there quietly, Tom’s wallet still between Roland’s fingers and his face still smashed into the shoulder of his tan coat. 

 

“You’re fine,” Roland whispered finally, going to run a hand over Tom’s hair before landing on the back of his neck, “I mean it.” 

 

“Thank you.” The way that Tom said that felt incomplete, like there was an unspoken ‘ _ for everything _ ,’ on the tail end of that statement. 

 

“Don’t mention it,” Roland said softly, squeezing his neck, “it’s no trouble.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr at levijamesn (main) or gayrolandwest (td side blog)! 
> 
> if you can guess which line i’m the proudest of, you get my eternal love and affection. i also just want to know which parts were your favorites. 
> 
> on a long winded note, i was basically down a computer for about six months. hurry hurry has been written on my phone thus far, which is why it’s taken me a painstakingly long time to put out new and long chapters. i promise my chapters usually run long, and i appreciate y’all giving hurry hurry the time of day!

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr at either levijamesn (main blog) or gayrolandwest (TD blog) 
> 
> or on twitter at levi_76_99


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